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1 























HOW IT ENDED 




BY 

w 


MARIE FLAACKE. 

ii 


“ ’Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than ne’er to have loved at all.” 



NEW YORK: 

THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

Bond Street. 



L. 

7r 




v\ 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by 
THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 1. page 

Roselawn 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Nookside 13 

CHAPTER III. 

Aunt Janet’s Hero 18 

CHAPTER IV. 

“ What could it be ?” 24 

CHAPTER V. 

Shadows 30 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Shadows deepen 89 

CHAPTER VII. 

Gerald’s Story 49 

CHAPTER VIII. 

June’s Answer 59 

CHAPTER IX. 

Thinking ! 69 

CHAPTER X. 

Bondage 77 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Letter of Doom 86 

CHAPTER XII. 

Parting 92 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Bitter End 99 



HOW IT ENDED. 


CHAPTER I. 

ROSELAWN. 

Old Sol never looked down upon a fairer scene 
than that displayed beneath his burning gaze one 
morning, several years ago, in one of the Southern 
States. Precisely where it was located it is not 
necessary to mention, for it would not increase 
the interest of “ this ower true tale,” nor disclose the 
identity of the parties concerned. Suffice it to say, 
nature and art, combined with taste and wealth, 
had made Poselawn one of the handsomest 
country residences in the State ; while fate and fact 
erected there a stage upon which a touching little 
drama was played — the actors not being mere pup- 


6 


HOW IT ENDED . 


pets who recited their parts by rote, but were veri- 
table beings, who had lived and loved and suffered. 

Roselawn was the summer residence of Mrs. 
Morton Donance, a wealthy widow, with only one 
child to share her vast store of the good things of 
life, a saucy, merry, beautiful girl of eighteen, the 
belle of the county, and her mother’s spoiled darling. 
Possibly, beautiful is scarcely an appropriate name 
to apply to Kate Donance’ s many attractions. Her 
features were fine, her eyes a mischievous brown, and 
her curly chestnut hair was so many meshes in 
which were ensnared her willing captives ; yet it was 
her gay, saucy manners, unceasing liveliness, and 
thousands of little coquettish wiles that captivated 
her admirers more than any special beauty of fea- 
ture or coloring. 

Mrs. Donance usually spent the winter months at 
the capital of her native State, removing to her sub- 
urban residence at the first approach of summer, 
when Kate filled the roomy old mansion with her 
young friends, and by her contagious example put 


nosELAWN. 


7 


the entire neighborhood in a constant state of amuse- 
ment and gayety. 

Roselawn, taking its name from the extensive 
roseries which surrounded the house and monopo- 
lized various parts of the estate, was famous for its 
beautiful grounds, smooth lawns, and magnificent 
collections of plants and flowers. The gray-stone 
mansion itself, a pleasing combination of the an- 
tiqu3 and modern, with innumerable bay-windows 
and small balconies jutting out from every imagin- 
able nook and crevice, covered with luxuriant vines 
andcreepers, stood upon a slight elevation, against 
a background of stately old trees and well-kept 
shribbery ; while the terraces, rivalling green velvet 
in hie and smoothness, gently sloped to the bright, 
spakling river, which skirted the broad domains of 
the Donance homestead and ran merrily along 
throigh sunshine and shade until it became lost in 
the embrace of the restless ocean. 

Ipon the morning in question the rustic benches 
anochairs upon the lawn were occupied by Kate’s 


8 


HOW IT ENDED. 


companions, all busily engaged in discussing plans 
for the day’s pleasure. There were about a dozen 
“ belles and gallants gay,” all of them wealthy, 
most of them possessors of a generous supply of 
beauty, and a few of them excessively fascinating. 
Kate, the most perfect hostess, insomuch that she 
permitted her guests great latitude in pleasing them- 
selves, formed one of an animated group discussing 
a new arrival at the nearest neighbor’s — old Mrs. 
De Kaye’s. Such of Kate’s friends as had previ- 
ously met the gentleman were loud in their praises 
of his morals, manners, and money. He w^is so 
fine-looking, so dignified, so courtly ! Indeed], the 
changes were rung so steadily in his favor, that 
incipient signs of jealousy were unmistakably devel- 
oping themselves in the hearts and minds of the gen- 
tlemen present, and, one and all, they were reaqly to 

turn the cold shoulder upon their fair but fjickle 

■ 

friends. 

“ It’s all very well for you to rave over Burton,” 
said Harry Farquar, laughingly ; “ but let mq tell 


ROSE LAWN. 


9 


you, young ladies, that all your charms will be 
powerless to effect the faintest impression upon his 
adamantine heart. He’s a woman-hater of the most 
pronounced type, is totally impervious to the 
blandishments of your sex, and, in a word, will 
have none of you !” 

“ Indeed !” retorted Miss Joe Lacy, with an indig- 
nant toss of her head, “ wouldn’t it be more polite for 
you to give us the benefit of the doubt ? Possibly 
none of us would have him ! ” 

Further reply was prevented by Kate’ s low warning : 

“ Hush, children ! When one speaks of angels 
one often hears their wings ! Behold, the conquer- 
ing hero comes — escorting Aunt Janet !” 

All eyes were turned in the direction her gaze in- 
dicated, just in time to see the expected guests turn 
into a lane beyond the lodge, and disappear in the 
shadow of the woods. 

There was much hearty laughter among the gen- 
tlemen, and considerable pouting among the ladies, 
as Farquar exclaimed : 


10 


HOW IT ENDED. 


“ There ! didn’t I say so? Annt Janet had al- 
most persuaded him, but just at the turning-point 
— i.e., the lodge-gate — his courage left him, and he 
persuaded the old lady to forsake the broad high- 
way that leads to destruction ” — with a wicked look 
at Kate — “and take the narrow path toward 
home !” 

“Thank you,” Kate retorted, with a low bow to 
the mischief -loving Harry, “ destruction won’t ship- 
wreck you, Impudence ; of that you may rest 
assured !” 

At which Mr. Farquar looked a trifle uncomfort- 
able, for his devotion to saucy Kate was so transpar- 
ent that a general smile followed her remark, and 
some merriment at his expense ensued. 

“But, Kate,” exclaimed Maggie Conway, “who 
is Gerald Burton, any way? I’m sure I don’t 
remember ever having heard of him, and I’ve been 
out — oh, for ages ! Is he Mrs. De Kaye’s nephew, an 
old settler, or — what ?” 

“ Well,” said Kate, “ if a failure to occupy the 


IiOSELAWN. 


11 


first and second positions indicated by yonr query 
promotes him to the third, that’s what he is, my 
dear 

“ I think I can supply the information you desire, 
Miss Conway,” exclaimed Ned Thornton ; “ for he 
was a classmate of mine at college. He was one of 
the gayest fellows in our set, rich enough to satisfy 
any one’s ambition, and a general favorite with 
every one. When he came of age, he left college, 
and, as heir to his father’s lands and bank-notes, 
settled down into a sober, studious way of living, 
having given up his old associates and habits, and 
turned over a new leaf. I met him in Paris, about a 
year ago, and was greatly impressed by his changed 
manners and appearance. He had spent the time 
between our chance meeting and his withdrawal 
from college, with the exception of a month at 
home, in Europe, and had formed no plans for an 
immediate return. It seemed to me, during the few 
hours of his society I enjoyed, that something had 
occurred to dispel all his youthfulness, and substitute 


12 


HOW IT ENDED. 


in its place a sedate gravity remarkable in so yonng 
a man. He must be — let me see — yes, about twenty- 
five years of age ; no older certainly ! He was a 
handsome fellow, and a capital fellow, too ! There, 
that’s all I know, and I think I deserve a great deal 
of credit for volunteering such a lengthy explanation 
on such a warm day as this, too. Miss Kate, how 
high is the mercury ?” 

“ Out of sight, Mr Thornton ! A fact, I assure 
you,” she added, as they all laughed. “ I sent mam- 
my to see how it stood this morning, and she 
returned, saying : ‘ I ’clar for it, Miss Kate, the lit- 
tle silver thing-a-my done gone clear out of sight !’ ” 

“ Then, if that is the case,” returned Thornton, 
when the merriment had subsided, “ we had better 
try the water for a little coolness. Who’ s for a sail, 
or a row ?” 

In the merry bustle and confusion that ensued 
Gerald Burton was forgotten, and the party de- 
scended to the river, where, in a few moments the 
sound of oars and the rattling of sails mingled with 
the laughing voices and gay calls. 


NO OK SIDE. 


13 


Roselawn was unusually gay that summer, for 
Kate had determined to have a season of thorough 
enjoyment and jollity, and to effect that desired 
consummation had assembled a dozen of her most 
congenial friends, of both sexes. Picnics, archery 
matches, croquet, theatricals, to say nothing of boat- 
ing by moonlight as well as by day, made the hours 
pass merrily and swiftly, leaving pleasant recollec- 
tions of past enjoyments, and anticipations of what 
the future had in prospective. 


CHAPTER II. 

NOOKSIDE. 

Nookside, the grounds adjoining the Donance 
property, and its only rival in all that region of ex- 
clusive elegance and aristocratic pride, was the resi- 
dence of old Mrs. De Kaye, and the constant home 
of the owner, a confirmed invalid. But though de- 
barred by ill-health from participating in the gayeties 


14 


HOW IT ENDED. 


of tlie summer, the old lady was a great favorite 
with the young people of the neighborhood, and 
Kookside was noted for its hospitalities, and its 
owner’s kindness and proverbial geniality. 

Having no children of her own, Mrs. De Kaye con- 
stantly surrounded herself with numerous nieces and 
nephews, who, with friends of their selection, took 
possession of the beautiful place, and exercised 
their own sweet wills in regard to matters and 
things, though acknowledging without reservation 
the imperceptible power of the gentle old lady who 
managed to prepare for them, despite her feeble- 
ness, countless pleasures and amusements. 

Petted, caressed, and loved, the tiny old lady, 
with her snow-white hair, bright eyes, and old- 
school manners and graces, formed a pleasing con- 
trast to the fair, fresh, young faces about her, and 
was as lovely with her mature charms as the belle of 
the coterie, who, crowned by youth and beauty, 
shared with her the reign of queendom. 

Suffering had made her peculiarly thoughtful of 


NOOKSIDE. 


15 


the sorrows of others, and given her a keen percep- 
tion to descry trouble, however carefully disguised. 
The small rivalries between her young people, not 
always harmless, were quietly but effectually ad- 
justed by her gentle intervention, and many displays 
of incipient jealousy were nipped in the bud by that 
skilful tact which disarmed suspicion of interfer- 
ence and engendered harmony. Bright, cheery, full 
of love and care for her guests, she made Nook- 
side so attractive that Kate Donance sometimes 
pretended to be jealous of her power, and declared 
she was setting up a rival establishment in order to 
deprive Roselawn of its importance. Between 
the two houses there was almost constant connec- 
tion ; and Mrs. De Kaye, as much to her own aston- 
ishment as to Kate’s delight, was often induced to 
spend days at a time, with all her young friends, in 
the house on the hill, sometimes driving there in her 
low, easy carriage, or propelled in her invalid- chair, 
attended by her court. 

Not a day passed without a detachment from each 


16 


HOW IT ENDED. 


lionse holding meetings and planning enjoyments 
in which all were to participate ; and the “ rival 
houses,” as Kate termed them, mingled so thor- 
oughly that it was almost impossible to decide which 
party was entertaining the other. If Kate’ s friends 
rendezvoused at Nookside in the morning, it was to 
form some plan of amusement to be carried out at 
Roselawn in the afternoon ; and if a full meet- 
ing was called at the house on the hill in the after- 
noon, it was followed by an evening’s entertainment 
at Mrs. De Kaye’s. So that an interchange of cour- 
tesies and friendliness was constantly being devised, 
and the formal stately acquaintanceship deepened, 
between many of the summer friends, into firm 
regard. 

It would be difficult to find a group of girls more 
fascinatingandpretty than that assembled at the two 
houses. But among them all, June Atherton, Kate's 
cousin, was indisputably the fairest and sweetest. 
Pretty girls, gay girls, striking girls, were plentiful ; 
but June was beautiful, and, better still, good and 


NOOKSIDE. 


17 


true. An orphan, an heiress, her own mistress, 
greatly attached to Mrs. Donance and Kate, she 
resided with them more months in the year than she 
spent in her own town house, and returned fully all 
the love lavished upon her. Kate’s generous nature 
gave no thought to the fact that June’s beauty far 
exceeded her own, but with almost a masculine eye 
for feminine loveliness she raved about her cousin’s 
dark eyes, and fair complexion, and composed so 
many impromptu sonnets to her charms that her 
friends mischievously dubbed her June’s adorer — 
satire which she cheerfully endured, for she loved 
June, and admired her for many traits of character 
not inherent in her own fly-away nature. 

Kate was a flirt by nature, June was nothing of the 
kind. Indeed, so little did she care for admiration 
that Kate vowed she would die an old maid, and 
drew many pathetic word-pictures of her probable 
fate, and lonely life, to all of which June willingly 
agreed, and professed profound liking for, even to 
the companionship of two old cats and a parrot. But 


18 


HOW IT ENDED. 


in truth, the lonely life of a “ maiden all forlorn” 
did not alarm Miss Atherton in the least, and none 
of Kate’s admonitions proved effectual in convincing 
her that it was her duty to marry. 

Why should she, since she had never yet met the 
man she felt she could love ? 


CHAPTER III. 
aunt janet’s hero. 

If Aunt Janet, as she was familiarly known to her 
guests, felt a deeper regard for one relative more 
than another, or was at all inclined to be at all par- 
tial to one of them, Gerald Burton was the favored 
mortal ; though, indeed, no ties of relationship 
bound him to Mrs. De Kaye, and her regard for him 
was but the outgrowth of the friendship she had 
shared with his parents. 

Deep down in the old lady’s heart was hidden a 
romance, or the remembrance of one, that all her joys 


AUNT JANETS HERO. 


10 


and sorrows had been powerless to efface ; for 
Gerald’s father and the pretty Janet Moore of other 
days had been parted by the stern decree of a 
parent who thought little of love unless counter- 
balanced by gold and position, and young Burton 
possessed neither. The years of separation demand- 
ed by Mr. Moore wrought changes beyond Janet’s 
power to prevent, and when next she met her dis- 
carded lover she was the wife of another and older 
man, and, strange as it may seem to romantic minds, 
a happy, loving wife as well. 

Gerald Burton and herself remained the best of 
friends until the former’ s death, when he consigned 
his young wife and children to Janet Be Kaye’s 
thoughtful friendship, knowing how warm a feeling 
existed between his wife and Janet. As years 
passed, circumstances made it necessary for Mrs. 
Be Kaye to move to a distant part of the State, and 
frequent intercourse between the two families was 
impossible. Then, too, she passed several years in 
Europe, and on her return took possession of 


20 


HOW IT ENDED. 


Kookside, where for three or four years she had 
remained constantly. 

This summer a longing to see her old friends 
prompted her to write to Mrs. Burton, and request 
the favor of having the society of her son and 
daughter during the summer months. In reply, 
she learned that Jeannie was absent from home, but 
Gerald would gladly visit her ; so with great pleas- 
ure she looked forward to the arrival of Gerald’s 
son, intending to welcome him as one of her own. 
She had last seen him when he was but a college 
youth of eighteen, full of fun and life, and the very 
image of his handsome, imperious father. 

Knowing nothing of his career during the years of 
her absence, she expected to find him the same 
light-hearted fellow, just as full of mischief and 
frolic, with perhaps a shade more of thoughtfulness 
and repose of manner ; consequently, it was a rude 
shock to meet, upon his arrival, a grave, quiet man, 
dignified, handsome, courtly, but with no traces of 
boyishness in feature or manner, and not a vestige 


AUNT JANET 8 HERO. 


21 


of Ms former light-heartedness or the careless insou- 
ciance of youth. 

Poor Aunt Janet ! The change shocked her. 
Instead of her merry, dashing godson, who had 
won all hearts by his brightness, she found a grave, 
quiet man, almost stern in his demeanor, with the 
saddest eyes, and the greatest amount of self-control 
she had witnessed in a human being. Whatever 
may have been the cause of the metamorphose he 
guarded his secret well, so well that though several 
of Aunt Janet’s guests were old friends of his, they 
apparently saw nothing strange in the change which 
so puzzled the surprised old lady. 

Perhaps something of her anxiety was exhibited 
in her searching looks during the first few days of 
his visit, for one morning, finding her alone in her 
little sitting-room, he said, with a smile : 

“ Aunt Janet, do you doubt my identity \ Ever 
since my arrival you have regarded me with such 
piercing glances that I almost believe you think me 
an impostor. It is myself truly, and no one else. 


22 


HOW IT ENDED. 


Won’t you believe me, or must I exbibit my creden- 
tials V 9 

“ Ob, no !” sbe answered, 'laughingly, “ it is you, 
but you are so changed — that is — I mean — ■” 

“ That you find a great difference in the happy, 
careless boy you knew seven years ago ! I have 
changed very much, I know ; but you must make 
some allowances for different habits and tastes, as 
well as a difference in age and disposition.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, hesitatingly ; “ only — surely, 
Gerald, your life cannot be so unhappy that it has 
made you a grave, quiet man, old before your time, 
and finding no pleasure in the merry life around 
you !” 

“ A man’s life,” he answered, briefly, with a com- 
pression of his lips, “ is what he makes it. I have 
no right to complain of mine, for I have made it 
what it is. Aunt Janet, would you feel light-heart- 
ed and gay if you knew a terrible fate was over- 
shadowing you, liable at any moment to crush you 
beneath its weight of despair? Would you find 


AUNT JANETS HERO. 


23 


existence a pleasure were you continually compelled 
to repair from the enjoyments a man of my age de- 
lights in, rather than by the indulgence aggregate 
your remorse and pain V’ 

“ I don’t understand you, Gerald,” she replied, 
amazed at his vehement words ; “ the past few years 
have told me nothing of your sorrows or joys, and 
I’m as ignorant concerning your meaning as the 
veriest stranger. Can’t you confide in me, and tell 
me what the trouble is 

He turned away from the kind old face, touched 
by its loving expression ; but even as a reply 
trembled upon his lips, Kate entered the room ac- 
companied by June, and he only had time to say, 
hastily, as they approached Mrs. De Kaye : 

“ Some day, Aunt Janet, I will tell you all !” 


HOW IT ENDED. 


24 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ WHAT COULD IT BE V 9 

In the seclusion of her own room, that night, 
Aunt Janet reflected upon Gerald’s words. As she 
said, the years of silence, though powerless to sever 
the ties of friendship, had debarred her from the 
intimacy which had so long existed between Mrs. 
Burton and herself. In all that time she had heard 
nothing whatever of the Burtons, and was quite 
ignorant of any changes that may have occurred in 
their lives or fortunes. That Gerald’s troubles were 
not of a pecuniary nature, she was positive ; and as 
all the disagreeabilities of this world are occasioned 
by love or money, or the lack of either or both, she 
at length decided that possibly he was in love, or 
had been jilted, or something of a similar nature. 
More troubled by his manner that she cared to 
acknowledge, she determined to watch him closely, 


WHAT COULD IT BE?” 


25 


obtain some cine, and persnade him to confide in 
her, trusting to her womanly tact and skill to release 
him from his bondage. 

Poor Gerald ! her tender heart ached with the 
sympathy she could not express by words. She was 
very fond of him for his father’s sake as well as his 
own, and was pained and perplexed by the great 
change in his former frank, boyish nature. Only 
monetary difficulties or disappointment in love, 
she felt assured, could be the reason of it, and 
knowing of the immense fortune left him by his 
father, she decided that undoubtedly his heart had 
not been equally as well guarded as had been his 
bank account. 

That impression was strengthened by Gerald’s 
evident disinclination for feminine society, and his 
quiet but persistent avoidance of Aunt Janet’s 
friends. Without being absolutely rude, he repel- 
led by his studied coldness all attempts on the part 
of Kate and her companions to draw him within the 
charmed circle ; and, by his apparent indifference, 


26 


HOW IT ENDED , 


received the title of “ Woman-hater,” or, as Kate 
saucily told Mrs. De Kaye, when in one of her confi- 
dential moods, he was “ a double-distilled com- 
pound of hauteur and iciness, too far above the level 
of petty worldlings to mingle in their pleasures !” 

In vain Aunt Janet defended her favorite. Kate 
had determined to dislike him, and nothing could 
induce her to alter her unfavorable opinion. “ I 
admire a dignified man,” she declared, “ but not an 
icicle ! There’s no more animation in your Gerald 
Burton than there is in one of your old family por- 
traits, and he’s not half as handsome either ! He 
might suit June, but I detest him ! And if she 
wants him she is perfectly welcome to all she can 
get from him in the way of attention or admiration.” 

“ Wait until you understand him better, my 
dear,” was Aunt Janet’s reply ; “lam sure you will 
think differently then. Perhaps, too, June won’t 
want him either ; but he is a man whose attentions 
and regard any woman should be proud to receive.” 

Kate’s careless words concerning June, though 


“ WHAT COULD IT BE?” 


27 


spoken in jest, aroused thoughts in Mrs. De Kaye' s 
mind that had frequently intruded since Gerald’s 
arrival. She was very fond of the two cousins, but 
she loved June dearly, and would gladly have seen 
her Gerald’s wife. And why should it not be? 
Gerald was young, rich, and free, without fault or 
vice, so far as she knew, and a man who would 
make an excellent husband. June was equally 
favored in regard to beauty and wealth, and a most 
charming girl in every respect. To be sure, they 
were both exceedingly indifferent to each other’s 
attractions, and June’s disregard for deeper atten- 
tions from her admirers than those inspired by 
simple friendliness was but a variation of Gerald’s 
unsusceptibility to the many charms of the fair girls 
who would willingly have won him from his grave 
moods. 

There is a propensity for match-making in every 
woman’s nature, and Aunt Janet was no exception 
to the general rule. To her loving old heart, the 
thought of a union between the two persons upon 


28 


HOW IT ENDED. 


whom so much of her affection was lavished was 
fraught with great joy. What wonder is it, then, to 
find her devising ways and opportunities for throw- 
ing her favorites together, and giving them every 
possible aid towards effecting the devoutly desired 
consummation ? 

And her efforts were well rewarded. June, usual- 
ly so chary of her friendship, found herself greatly 
attracted by the grave, silent man, and gave him 
such glimpses of her bright, joyous nature as dis- 
turbed his self -enforced avoidance, and arSused a 
desire for more of her good-will and regard. Grad- 
ually as he mingled more and more with the gay 
company, his face lost its gloomy shadows, and his 
brown eyes often gleamed and sparkled with the old 
mischief and merriment Aunt Janet so liked to see. 
Kate, agreeably surprised by the change, and quick 
to note the cause, admitted him to her favor, and 
sang his praises without reserve, greatly to the dis- 
may of her devoted admirer Harry Farquar. 

And June ? Of course she was not insensible to 


WHAT COULD IT BE?" 


29 


the influence she possessed; but only a very con- 
ceited or very silly woman fancies every man her 
lover who yields to her the chivalrous respect of 
a loyal nature, and June, being neither, gave no 
thought to what the end would be, until the ques- 
tion was forced upon her attention. It was June 
who drew him out and made him a most brilliant 
conversationalist ; June who made him drop his 
impenetrable mask ; June who changed his stem 
demeanor into merry humor ; June who brought 
back the old-time light to his eyes, and banished 
their sad gravity ; yet even Kate could not tell 
whether she felt more than a passing regard for him, 
or was sensible of where Gerald’s admiration was 
leading him. But although June was too much a 
woman of the world to exhibit her pleasure in her 
new acquaintance, Aunt Janet knew her too well to 
think she was only amusing herself with a slight 
flirtation. Had she not enjoyed Gerald’s society, or 
appreciated his preference, she would have shown 
him no encouragement, or given him any opportu- 
nity to cultivate her friendship. 


ao 


HOW IT ENDED. 


So day after day passed, until Gerald’s visit 
lengthened into a period of two months ; bnt still 
he evinced no desire to leave Nookside. Mrs. 
De Kaye observed the fact -with great delight, and 
Kate began to wonder if it was possible that her 
stately consin was at last about to descend to the 
level of ordinary mortals, and be guilty of the hack- 
neyed but essentially womanish folly of falling in 
love ! 


CHAPTER Y. 

SHADOWS. 

“ At whom are you gazing so intently, June V' 

June drew back from the window quickly, and 
turned a slightly flushed face towards her mischiev- 
ous cousin as she answered : 

“How you startled me, Kate! Why, I was 
merely looking at the river !” 

“H-m-m, I may be wrong, June, dear, but it 


SHADOWS. 


31 


strikes me I can catch a glimpse of a white straw hat 
down among the trees, and I wouldn’t be surprised 
to discover that said hat is reposing upon Gerald 
Burton’s head. Ah, I was right ! ’Tis he, and here 
he comes, looking as solemn and stem as though he 
were a careworn man of forty, instead of being a 
youth of twenty-five. Nonsense, June,” she added, 
a little impatiently, “ don’t run away ! He’s look- 
ing directly up at this window, and I know he 
doesn’t wish to see me !” 

But June had already disappeared, and Kate was 
obliged to greet Mr. Burton when he approached the 
house, and inquired if Miss Atherton was at home. 

“No,” replied Kate, leaning from the low win- 
dow to speak to him, “ Miss Atherton has just left 
me. She—” 

“Miss Kate, you don’t mean she has left Rose- 
lawn !” Gerald Burton’s face turned so pale at 
Kate’s jesting words that she repented having 
uttered them. 

“I didn’t mean that; of course not!” she re- 


32 


HOW IT ENDED. 


turned, quickly. “ See, there she is, walking to- 
wards the river ; and I do wish you would tell her 
not to walk so far in this warm sun ! Are you com- 
ing in % Ko \ Well, stop and take lunch with us 
when you both decide to return.” 

“ I will be pleased to do so,” he answered smil- 
ing ; “ and now — ” 

“And now you wish to say good-morning !” 
interrupted Kate. “Well, you may, and to show 
that I cherish no ill-will in return for your evident 
readiness to forsake me, I’ll give you permission 
to take June out in my little Zip !” 

“ That, indeed, would be heaping coals of fire 
upon my head, and seems very much as though you 
were rewarding me for being naughty.” 

“ See that you appreciate my generosity !” 

“ I certainly do,” he replied, and lifting his hat, 
he sauntered away from the house, and retraced his 
steps down the path leading to the river. 

Kate remained at the window until she saw her 
cousin and Mr. Burton embark in her little boat, 


SHADOWS. 


33 


then she left the room. Her appearance on the 
lawn among her gnests was the signal for a game 
of croquet, and in the excitement of the sport she 
speedily ceased to think of the wandering couple. 

Ah, no, she could not completely lose all recollec- 
tion of the absentees, though her game was very 
absorbing ; but bonnie Kate, being a woman, could 
not resist the temptation of selecting an eligible 
partner for her cousin, and even croquet, fascinating 
as it was, could not entirely efface all remembrance 
of the two wanderers in the woods. Truly she had 
resolved to have June marry, and many were the 
good “ catches ” she had thrown in June’s way ; but 
June was obdurate, and resolutely refused to play 
the agreeable to any of the chosen ones ; and 
though Kate was too good a tactician to allow her 
defeat to be apparent, she was almost in despair at 
the prospective failure of her plans. 

Only that morning she had informed her cousin, 
in the most solemn manner imaginable, that she was 
destined to be an old maid ; and had elevated her 


34 


HOW IT ENDED. 


hands with mock horror at Jnne’s reply, that she 
“ didn’t care.” 

“ Of conrse yon don’t,” retorted Kate ; “ bnt for 
my part I think you are far too good and pretty to 
live and die an old maid ! And really, June, I con- 
sider it my positive duty to find you a husband. 
It is highly improbable that you, of all people, 
should fail to discover the 

“ Twin soul that halves your own," 

and if you won’t exert yourself to secure your 
proper half, I’ll have to do it for you.” 

June made some laughing reply, and then the 
conversation ended. 

Possibly, though, she was thinking of Kate’s 
jesting words when her cousin entered the room 
half an hour later, and found her standing by the 
window gazing abstractedly out upon the river. 
Any way, when Gerald Burton approached, she 
hastily seized her garden-hat and left the room. 
Avoiding the broad walk which led directly to the 


SHADOWS. 


35 


water, she traversed a side path until she reached 
the bank of the sparkling stream ; then, throwing 
her hat upon the grass, she seated herself upon a 
rustic bench, beneath a huge maple, and soon be- 
came absorbed in what was evidently a continua- 
tion of the reverie Kate had disturbed. She smiled 
quietly to herself as she recalled Kate’s fear that she 
would never marry ; but, after thinking of the 
occurrences of the past few months, she was almost 
inclined to believe there was some foundation for 
her cousin’ s pretended alarm. More than one heart 
and hand had been offered for her acceptance since 
her arrival at Koselawn, but all had been reject- 
ed. She would only marry the man she loved, and 
she was quite convinced that she did not — 

But at this point she paused abruptly, and pon- 
dered upon the partly entertained thought. Was it 
really true that she loved no one \ Could she look 
far into the depths of her heart and candidly affirm 
that it contained no sentiment but that of friendly 
regard towards all men ? Among her many admir- 


36 


now IT ENDED. 


ers and warm friends was there no one particular 
person whom she respected more and liked better 
than all the rest ? 

“ Miss Atherton !” 

Startled by the interruption June sprang to her 
feet, quite frightened out of her customary compos- 
ure. The soft sward gave no warning of approach- 
ing footsteps, and so deeply engaged with her own 
thoughts had she been, that she was not aware of 
Gerald Burton’s presence until he addressed her. 

“ Did I alarm you ?” he exclaimed, as he stooped 
to restore the book she had dropped ; “ how 
thoughtless of me to steal upon you unawares !” 

“ Don’t mention it, please, or I shall feel that it 
was quite ridiculous to be frightened at— at — ” 

“At nothing,” he interpolated, smiling at her 
hesitation. 

“ No, indeed !” she protested, “ I have no inten- 
tion of saying anything so rude ! I was so busily 
engaged with my own profound meditations that I 
had begun to consider myself a modern edition of 


SHADOWS. 


37 


Robinson Crusoe. It is an easy thing to become 
lost in reflection, you know, and it is an amusement 
in which I often indulge.” 

“ I trust that in this instance, at least, your 
thoughts were of pleasant persons and things ?” 

June’s face flushed slightly as she remembered 
the subject upon which she had been meditating. 
She was silent a moment, then replied : 

“ They were not so pleasant that I need regret 
your interruption.” 

“ And may I offer, as substitute, a row in the 
Zip ?” 

“ The exchange will make me your debtor,” 
she answered, smiling. “ Is the Zip moored? I 
thought Kate intended to row over to see Minnie 
Foster ?” 

“ I have her permission to use the boat, as she 
postponed making the call until to-morrow. It is 
just the morning for a row, and I am sure you will 
enjoy it.” 

“ I am quite positive I shall,” June responded, as 


38 


I10W IT ENDED. 


they walked along the bank to the boat-house. 
“Are you sure it will not be to" warm for you 
though ? Rowing, never a cooling exercise, will be 
uncomfortably tiresome and warm in the sun, and I 
don’t wish you to regret your kindness, or to con- 
sider me more of a burden than a pleasure.” 

They had reached the Zip’s landing, and Burton 
stooped to unfasten the chain from the lock. As 
she uttered those words, however, he turned quickly, 
facing her as he exclaimed, earnestly : 

“ Miss Atherton, you are jesting ! You certainly 
must know that I ask for no greater happiness than 
the pleasure of serving you ! 4 More trouble than 

pleasure,’ ” he repeated, reproachfully ; “how can 
you say so ? Wait,” he added, as she was about to 
step into the boat, “ you must promise never to say 
that again !” 

He caught her hands, and held them tightly in 
his own. June glanced up into his face, about to 
make some laughing reply ; but as she raised her 
eyes to his the words died upon her lips, for the 


THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 


39 


love-liglit she had often fancied she saw in their 
depths certainly gleamed in them now, and with 
snch intensity that she conld not meet it. With 
averted head she uttered the promise, and was 
released. Gerald followed her into the boat, and 
after arranging the cushions and getting her com- 
fortably seated he took up the oars and pushed off 
from shore. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 

June leaned over the boat’s edge, and drew her 
hand through the water as Gerald’s steady strokes 
sent the little craft out in deeper waters. They were 
both silent for a few moments, then he asked, 
briefly : “ Which way shall we go, Miss Atherton ; 
have you any preference ?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, glancing at him shyly, 


40 


ROW IT ENDED. 


“ I’d like to go to the spot Kate calls Shady Glen. 
Do yon know where it is V\ 

“ I believe I do,” Mr. Burton responded, a mis- 
chievous smile lurking in his eyes and upon his 
lips. If my memory serves me rightly — and I think 
it does — we walked down there yesterday !” 

June laughed despite her embarrassment, and, the 
ice being thus broken, their conversation resumed its 
usual friendliness. A half hour’s row brought them 
to the place romantic Kate had designated Shady 
Glen ; and as a few quick short strokes sent the 
boat far in among the cool shadows formed by the 
trees which shaded the river on either bank, Gerald 
drew in his oars and let the boat float at will. 

“ How lovely every thing is !” exclaimed June, as 
she took off her hat and let the cool, fresh breeze 
ruffle her hair. 

Gerald made no reply. It was lovely, but “ it,” 
to him, meant the sweet face opposite. Lovely ? 
She was far more than that to him, yet could he, 
dare he tell her so ? Many, many times during the 


THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 


41 


past week he had longed to confess how deeply and 
truly he loved her, but the confession trembled 
upon his lips and remained unuttered. Almost un- 
consciously, now, he sat and gazed so steadily, so 
longingly at her, with such a strange expression in 
his eyes, that June felt pained and confused and 
sorrowful. An odd presentiment of coming trouble 
flashed across her mind as her eyes fell beneath his 
glance, and it seemed for a moment as though she' 
felt a shivering dread of some approaching terror or 
sorrow. 

The merry stream sparkled and flashed in the bright 
sunshine ; the trees nodded to one another from the 
grassy banks ; and far overhead the blue sky could 
be seen through the thick foliage. Now and then 
a bird would break into a song of gladness, making 
the air resound with his sweet melody, and the soft 
murmuring breezes stirred the wild-flowers, and 
made the dainty anemone bend lovingly to the 
ground. Beautiful indeed was the day and the 
landscape, but June’s heart had lost its buoyancy. 


42 


HOW IT ENDED. 


With the quickness of the lightning’s flash something 
had shattered her quiet pleasure, and awakened her 
from her calm thoughts of friendship and friend- 
ship’s claims. Something intangible, but very real, 
something unseen, but distinctly felt. What is the 
influence, or chord, I wonder, that rudely snaps 
bonds and ties of friendly liking, and awakens one 
from fancied security against Cupid’ s machinations 
to a full realization of one’s danger ? 

A woman says calmly : I Wee him ! But lo ! a 
word, a glance, a touch of the hand dashes aside 
the flimsy veil and she sees love in place of liking 
revealed. 

June saw, at last, where she stood, and recognized 
how useless it was to satisfy herself by pretending 
ignorance ; and she saw, too, what Gerald’s eyes 
and Gerald’s manner were about to proclaim. But 
her face betrayed no trace of the discovery that had 
dawned upon her so suddenly, as she sat looking 
over the water, and her voice was quiet as she made 
some remark about the pleasant row and the 
scenery. 


THE SHADOWS DEEP EH. 


43 


“ I wonder, Miss June,” Gerald continued, after 
replying to her remark, ‘ ‘ if we are good enough 
friends to admit of my boring you with a brief 
story V’ 

For a moment June was tempted to say no ; but 
an instant’s reflection convinced her it would be use- 
less to wound his feelings, or avert the trouble that 
was in store for her. She had been too quietly 
happy, too unconscious of the happiness, to hope 
for a continuance of her contentment, and then — ah, 
me ! one’ s bright day-dreams are so often shattered 
and crushed ! Like a ship idly floating with the 
tide, careless of danger so long as the dancing waves 
seem peaceful and safe, unaware of the sunken 
rocks treacherously waiting to wreck her, men and 
women float with the tide of contented, thoughtless 
happiness until suddenly they are aroused by some 
rude shock only to find themselves deprived of all 
guidance or support, helpless, hopeless, dazed by 
the sudden arousal from fancied security, and 
plunged into an abyss of amazement and despair. 


44 


HOW IT ENDED. 


So June felt when Gerald proffered his request to 
tell her the story — she was sure it was — of his life. 
She had almost imagined some mystery, or romance 
to be connected with him, and had often thought 
she would like to know what it was that made him 
so grave and old beyond his years. Yet, now that 
the opportunity was given her to hear it, she shrank 
from the disclosure, and wished to be spared the 
ordeal of listening to it. Still, it could not be 
helped ; so she forced her features to wear an ex- 
pression of unconcerned but friendly interest as she 
leaned back in the boat, and prepared to listen to 
what he was about to say. 

“ Years ago,” he began, “ a youth, for he was no- 
thing more, by one rash act blighted his own life and 
struck the death-blow to all his hopes of happiness. 
He was a Southerner, rash, impetuous, heedless, but 
at the same time honorable and true in every sense 
of the words. He was a theological student, and as 
unministerial in looks and actions as theological stu- 
dents generally are. While under the influence of 


THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 


45 


wine to a greater extent than he had ever before in- 
dulged in, he committed the indiscretion which 
proved so fatal to all his cherished plans and cast a 
pall over his whole life. June!” he exclaimed, 
abruptly, “ I may as well tell you — you must have 
imagined — that the youth was myself ! It was dur- 
ing a vacation. I had returned home to celebrate 
the day which would find me the possessor of an 
immense fortune and my own master, the day which 
would be the twenty -first anniversary of my birth. 
Several of my fellow-students had accompanied me 
home, and my mother and sister, while trying to tone 
down my boisterous merriment, did all they could to 
promote our pleasure and my happiness. The aus- 
picious day arrived, and the general festivities ter- 
minated in a ball, to which the elite of the neighbor- 
hood had received invitations. Among the many 
guests assembled there that night all were represen- 
tatives of our haughtiest, wealthiest Virginia fami- 
lies, with but one exception. That exception was — 
our overseer’s daughter. Do you wonder why she 


46 


HOW IT ENDED. 


was admitted on an equal footing with our aristocra- 
tic guests ? I will tell you. In addition to her own 
maid, my mother had for several years engaged the 
services of Belle Huxton in many things beyond the 
capabilities of ignorant slaves. She was, indeed, more 
of a companion than a servant, for my sister’s fre- 
quent absence from home made the large house seem 
lonely and dull to my mother, who was somewhat 
disinclined to making friends of the ladies of neigh- 
boring plantations. Being pretty, amiable, and quite 
well-bred for her station, Belle had become an in- 
mate of our home, and was treated more as a relative 
than as the daughter of the plantation overseer. I 
met her but seldom, as I spent but a few days of 
each vacation at home ; and up to the time of which 
I speak, had not noticed her beyond remarking that 
she was exceedingly pretty and quite lady-like. 
Still, I must say I protested against my mother’s 
wish that she should take a place among our guests, 
for I knew it would cause much comment. But for 
once my mother was firm. I am sure, though, she 


THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 


47 


felt herself placed in a peculiar position, and her 
stern pride, usually so unbending, must have yield- 
ed greatly to her ideas of duty or obligation ere she 
would condescend to propose so new and striking a 
departure from her code of social laws. She sup- 
ported her theory on the ground that, having called 
upon Belle’s taste and assistance in so many ways 
during the day, she considered it merely a return for 
her willingness and readiness to lighten the burden 
which the manifold preparations had caused to rest 
upon my mother’s shoulders. There was nothing 
more to be said, so the subject was dropped. 

“ I will pass over the scenes and incidents of that 
night, for it was almost midnight before I lost all 
control over myself, and played the part of a fool. 
As a general tiling I seldom tasted liquor of any 
kind ; but from being so often requested to drink to 
my own prosperity, I, that night, became not only 
slightly unsteady, but so much intoxicated that I 
completely lost all control of myself. I cannot tell 
you what I did — I do not know what I said. I had 


48 


HOW IT ENDED. 


a dim consciousness that I was paying very marked 
attention to a quiet but exceedingly beautiful girl, 
and that my attentions excited the notice and disap- 
proval of my mother and guests. I was in such a 
whirl of excitement, of intoxication, that I only re- 
membered a sentence whispered in my ear by Ned 
Carroll, my particular chum : ‘ Burton, come with 
me, and see if the fresh air won’t restore your senses. 
Good heavens, old fellow ! if you don’t regret this 
evening's performance for the rest of your life 
you’ll be a fortunate man !’ 

“ But I sent him away with a few curt words, 
and soon after our guests departed. Ned and my 
servant carried me to my room, put me to bed, and 
left me to fall into a drunken sleep which lasted far 
into the next day. 

“ The first thing which met my gaze when I 
opened my eyes at noon of the day following that 
fatal birthday, and tried to raise my heavy head 
from the pillows, was my mother’s pale, stern face. 

“ ‘ Are you awake enough to give me your atten- 
tion for a few moments ? ’ she asked. 


GERALD'S STORY. 


49 


“ Something in her manner startled me, and 
aroused me from my stupor. 

“ £ What is it % Has any thing happened ? ’ I ex- 
claimed, holding my hands to my aching head as I 
attempted to sit up. 


CHAPTER YII. 

Gerald’s story. 

£C £ Can you listen to me for a few moments ? ’ she 
asked, the cold, hard expression of her face soften- 
ing a little as she met my glance. £ You must 
know soon, and I may as well tell you at once. 
Gerald, Huxton is downstairs, in the library, over- 
whelmed with shame and grief at last night’s trans- 
actions. I will do him the justice to say I believe 
he regrets, as much as I do, your culpable foolish- 
ness ; but spurred on by his wife and daughter he 
feels compelled to exhibit a guardianship over the 


50 


JIOW IT ENDED. 


latter’s interests. Gerald, do you know what you 
did last night % Listen. ‘ You, Gerald Burton, my 
son, and belonging to a family whose idol is Honor, 
whose proudest boast is that our name has never 
been dishonored or stained, are accused of playing 
with the affections of my overseer’s daughter ! 
Wait,’ she added, as I was about to speak, ‘ first 
hear all I have to say. If you tell me, Gerald, that 
you said nothing to the girl which gave her reason 
to suppose you were earnest in your expressions 
of love (what a misnomer !), I will believe you, and 
help you out of your difficulty. On the contrary, if 
you led her to infer you meant everything you said 
to her — Gerald, you are a man of honor ! What will 
you do ? ’ 

“ Too bewildered to speak, I sat up in bed, and 
gazed at my mother, not taking in the full impor- 
tance of her words. Then, with miraculous swift- 
ness, the mist left my dizzy brain, and I began to 
reflect upon my conduct of the previous evening. 
Slowly I began to comprehend the lengths to which 


GERALD'S STORY. 


51 


I had gone, and dimly I remembered the vainly- 
regretted expressions I had used in my maudlin 
condition. 

“ ‘ Gerald ! ’ — my proud mother bent over me, and 
endeavored to remove my hands from my face — 
‘Gerald, speak to me! Don’t keep me in such 
suspense ! Did you commit yourself irrevocably % ’ 

“ My poor mother ! I could not give her the assur- 
ance she wished to hear — could not quiet her anxiety. 
Memory came to my aid, and recalled vividly to my 
mind the knowledge that, not knowing to whom I 
was paying such devoted attention, I had proposed 
to and been accepted by my overseer’s daughter ! 

“Let me pass over the scene that occurred a few 
hours later, when, upon entering the library, I con- 
fronted my mother, sister, and Huxton. Ned, 
poor fellow, much against his will, acknowledged 
having heard my insane proposal, also Miss Hux- 
ton’ s acceptance. My sister was indignant, dis- 
mayed, shocked, each emotion following the other 
in rapid succession. My mother said nothing until 


52 


HOW IT ENDED . 


Huxton had left the room, and then she spoke, 
clearly and cuttingly. I will not repeat her words, 
but the snbstance was to the effect that there was 
but one way to avert the consequences. I must see 
Belle, explain my conduct fully, and trust to her 
generosity for a release. It was scarcely possible, 
she maintained, that the girl really loved me, for we 
were comparative strangers to one another ; and it 
was quite probable that I could convince her of the 
utter impossibility of my entertaining any regard 
for her. 

“ ‘ Still, Gerald,’ she added, ‘ there is no excuse 
for you whatever. If you were still a minor I 
would assert my authority, and remove the obstacles 
which surround you ; but you are your own master, 
fully capable of deciding for yourself, and I am 
powerless to interfere. If Belle wishes to hold you 
to the engagement, you must submit to the degra- 
dation of marrying your overseer’s daughter. You 
cannot, honorably , withdraw. However, we can 
decide nothing until you have seen her ; and if I 


GERALD'S STORY. 


53 


may advise you, I would say you had better see her 
at once.’ 

“ I did so, and the result may be imagined when I 
tell you that instead of meeting an artless, innocent 
girl, who had taken my attentions in the spirit they 
were offered, I found a wily, unscrupulous woman, 
who had disguised, for many years, beneath a seem- 
ing amiability, and a desire to be of service to her 
benefactors, a firm resolve to marry the heir of the 
Burton estate. Beautiful, Belle Huxton certainly 
was, but also illiterate and coarse. And no true 
woman, no womanly woman, would have told me 
as plainly as she did why she intended to hold me 
to my drunken protestations of love. 

“ ‘ I do not love you, Gerald Burton,’ she said, 
very composedly, ‘ and I know you despise me ; 
but I do love your money, your lands, and the posi- 
tion I would have as your wife. In social standing 
there is a vast difference between us ; but it can be 
bridged over, and I intend to hold you to your prom- 
ises. You asked me to be your wife, and I ac- 


54 


HOW IT ENDED. 


cepted your offer. I shall not release you ! You 
Burtons pride yourselves upon being honorable men 
— tell me was it honorable for you to win my love, 
and then reject me at your lady mother’s com- 
mands ? No, you asked me to marry you, and I 
will. I will never, never give you up, you or your 
money either ! 5 

“ June, what could I do ? What would you have 
done, had you been in my place ? We Burtons did 
pride ourselves upon being honorable men, and 
though I had not won her love, it was quite as bad 
to ask her to marry me and then withdraw. She 
was actress enough to pretend her heart was broken, 
and I should always — no, I could not cause myself 
to feel I had played the part of a scoundrel ! A 
wretched fool I had made of myself, and no doubt 
it was a fitting punishment for my folly ; but it was 
very, very hard to bear. At first, seeing how beau- 
tiful Belle was, I conceived the idea of sending her to 
a distant part of the State to live with some friends 
of mine, where she could have all the advantages of 


GERALD'S STORY. 


55 


education and society necessary to enable her to oc- 
cupy the position my wife would be called upon to 
fill ; but a few interviews gave me such thorough 
knowledge of her sordid, calculating, ignoble dispo- 
sition that my momentary relief gave place to intense 
loathing and disgust. You know,” he said, with a 
shadow of a smile, “ men are willing to forgive a 
beautiful woman almost anything. I was young 
enough and susceptible enough to have been madly 
in love with Belle, had she possessed any attractions 
but those of face and form ; but her rude manners, 
and her eagerness for my money effectually repelled 
me, and made me curse my insane folly. I could 
not love her, I despised and detested her. My very 
soul revolted at the idea of making her my wife, yet 
was I not by honor bound to do so ?” 

He paused as though awaiting a reply ; but 
June’s averted face did not turn towards him. Her 
hands were clasped over the book in her lap, and 
she kept her eyes fixed upon the rippling river, so 
tantalizing in its brightness. 


56 


HOW IT ENDED. 


Like one in a dream, she but dimly realized liow 
closely liis story concerned herself. Ills story ? 
How odd it seemed to think of him at all ! Why, 
only yesterday they were the best of friends, with- 
out a thought of any deeper sentiment, and now — 

Gerald vainly waited for her to speak. She did 
not — could not — answer him, and he spoke again, 
quickly, as if in haste to finish the story. 

“ The result of that interview was not favorable 
to my peace of mind. I had acted wrongly, and, as 
my mother had said, there was no excuse for my 
conduct ; yet it seemed horrible that in return for 
one single rash act I should suffer for a lifetime. I 
could expect no consolation from my mother, whose 
fond hopes and hereditary pride received their 
death-blow through my culpable conduct. I could 
not exculpate myself, for I had erred and sinned 
grievously. Two days later I left my home, little 
better than an outcast. It was arranged that Belle 
and I should not meet for five years, and during 
that time we should hold no communication what- 


GERALD'S STORY. 


57 


ever. If, at tlie expiration of that period, she was 
still determined to marry me, I would be compelled 
to fulfil my part of the contract. So we parted, my 
mother and I, more in sorrow than in anger. It was 
a heavy blow for her, for I was her only son, and 
much of her pride and love was centred in me. But 
she thought it easier to send me from her, trusting 
to time to turn Belle’s fickle fancy, and cause her to 
form an attachment for some one else. I went to 
Europe, and remained there until last spring. Dur- 
ing all these years I have felt like a man who had 
all the burdens of life to carry upon his shoulders. 
Over every pleasure, every comfort, hung that dark 
cloud of despair and dread. It was misery to stay 
there, yet worse misery to return ! 

“ The time will expire on the twentieth of this 
month, just a week from to-day. I shall write to 
Iluxton to ascertain if his daughter is still living, 
and unmarried, and determined to marry me. If 
fate is against me, if I must pay the terrible penalty, 
June, tell me, has a man any right to wreck his 


58 


HOW IT ENDED. 


own life — and perhaps another* s also — for a sense of 
honor, or a morbid desire co keep his family record 
spotless? June,” he leaned forward and touched 
her folded hands, “June, did I act as you would 
have me act if you had known me then, and — loved 
me ? June, can’t you guess what makes my horri- 
ble bondage so much worse ? My darling, turn 
your sweet face to me — let me see your eyes ! Dare 
I tell you how much I love you ? Have I the right 
to do so ? June, look at me and hear me ! I never 
loved until I met you, and I love you with all the 
fervency of a man’s first and only affection. Love 
you ! Is it love or idolatry ? You have filled every 
corner of my heart until you seem to be part of my- 
self, and yet — oh ! my darling, my darling !” 

He caught her hands in his, and grasped them so 
tightly that he hurt her slender fingers. She tried 
to draw them away, tried to answer him. But she 
could not; her lips refused to move, and for once at 
least, her presence of mind and self-possession de- 
serted her completely. She could only look at him 


JUNE'S ANSWER. 


59 


through blinding tears, and feel as if she had slip- 
ped from the bright, beautiful world into a maze of 
hideous doubts and disappointments. He loved her, 
she knew he did ; but he had no right to tell her so, 
and she had no right to listen to his impassioned 
words. Dimly she realized the import of liis story. 
He was not hers, he was the jnomised husband of 
another. Yet he loved her, loved her deeply and 
truly. What was he saying now ? Oh ! it was 
cruel to torture her so ! And it was wrong to listen 
to him ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

June’s answer. 

He waited for her to speak, almost fearing that 
an indignant rejection would be her answer ; then, 
as she remained silent, he released her hands, feel- 
ing disheartened and rebuked. He did not know 
what thoughts were running riot through her brain 


60 


HOW IT ENDED . 


—he could only judge from outward indications ; 
and so judging he said, sadly : 

“ Forgive me, dear. It was very presuming of me 
to think you could love me, for you are so sweet 
and beautiful and good, and I am so unworthy of 
you. I need not ask if you could care for me, for I 
see now that — ” 

“ Gerald !” the sweet face was uplifted to his, 
and the little hands sought his own ; “ Gerald, X love 
you. I did not know it until this morning— I 
thought I was giving you nothing but friendship, 
but I find it was— it is — love. I am not too good for 
you ; indeed at this moment I feel wretchedly im- 
pious and wicked ! But you must not think of 
me until you ascertain whether you have the right 
to do so. It is difficult to decide who is the most 
miserable at present, and I would not add to your 
sorrow by insinuating that you are not true to your- 
self or to me when you forget or ignore the story 
you have just related. If that— that girl is married, 
or willing to release you, I’ll willingly accept your 


JUNE'S ANSWER. 


61 


love, and give mine in return ; but until you have 
seen her, or have heard from her, you must say 
nothing about your regard for me.” 

She spoke bravely, though her eyes were moist 
with tears, and her cheeks flushed by the effort it 
had been for her to speak so plainly. And she 
spoke so firmly, so truly, that Gerald forced himself 
to bow to her will, and check the eager words trem- 
bling upon his tongue. He raised her hand to his 
lips — he would have given worlds for the privilege 
of taking her in his arms, but he dared not. He 
could not claim her until he knew he was free to do 
so. As she said, he had no right to breathe words 
of love to her, and he was far too honorable to dis- 
regard her request. Wait ! How could he, without 
even the hope of success ? 

At that moment how fully he appreciated the ex- 
tent of his boyish folly ! How thoroughly did he 
realize the misery and hopelessness into which one 
little act had plunged him ! 

He glanced over the water, sparkling and dancing 


62 


HOW IT ENDED. 


in the golden sunshine, .then up at the tree-tops, 
where the birds were singing so gayly — every thing 
seemed so bright, so fair, so joyous, every tiling but 
his own sad heart. Every thing ? Ah ! no ! the 
beautiful face before him had lost its happy, con- 
tented expression ; the frank, dark eyes had become 
saddened and moist. Their glances met as he sat 
looking at her, and for one full moment eyes plainly 
revealed what lips were forbidden to divulge. 

Then June turned her head, and said quietly, 
“ Take me home, Gerald.” 

He obeyed. Hot another word was spoken until 
they reached the landing. Then, as he assisted her 
from the boat, he said, in a voice that trembled in 
spite of his efforts to speak calmly : 

“ Did I err in making my confession ? Should 
I have kept it to myself?” 

Her eyes met his bravely as she answered : 

“ I think not, Gerald — it was best to tell me. I 
pity myself, but oh ! I pity you a thousand times 
more ! I wish I could help you ! I hate myself for 


JUNE'S ANSWER. 


63 


being the cause of your sorrow ! If only you bad 
never met me !” . 

“Hush, love,” he said gravely, “you must not 
say that. If the worst is realized — if I have found 
you only to lose you — I will still thank heaven for 
the knowledge that there is one noble, brave woman 
in the world, and that she loves me. You do love 
me, dear, do you not \ Yet, if we have met only to 
be parted — oh, June, June ! how much unhappiness 
one rash act can bring to a man, and to those whom 
he loves as well !” 

“You will not mind,” he added, “ if I leave you 
here, will you % I must confess I am not brave 
enough to meet them all at the house. And, June, 
L won’t come to you until I am sure I am free — if I 
can remain away from you. To meet you day after 
day, knowing the hour of parting must come, will 
only make the bitter pain the harder to bear ; and 
I want to spare you all I can. Will you regret my 
absence ?” 

“ Gerald !” her voice sounded. strangely harsh as 


64 


HOW IT ENDED. 


she uttered that one word. Then, before he could 
realize her intention, she turned from him, and 
walked hastily towards the house, not trusting her- 
self to remain longer in his presence. 

Her one wish was to be alone. Imagine, then, 
her dismay, when, upon emerging from the grove 
after leaving Gerald so suddenly, she found herself 
in the midst of the group of croquet-players gath- 
ered on the lawn, and assailed by a perfect storm 
of questions and laughing remarks concerning the 
disappearance of her escort. Forcing her lips to 
smile, she tried to reply naturally, though her face 
was pale, and her eyes ached with the weight of un- 
shed tears. Only Kate noticed her paleness and 
forced gayety, and she promptly decided to free 
June from her tormentors. 

u June !”• she exclaimed, “ if you ever succeed in 
getting away from this crowd, you’ll find two letters 
in your room awaiting a speedy perusal. Lunch 
will be served at one o’clock to-day, as mamma will 
not return until then, and you will have time to 


JUNKS ANSWER. 


65 


answer your letters if they need immediate 
attention. Run away now, and tell us all the news 
when next we meet !” 

June made some laughing response, and gladly 
escaped to the house and her own room, where she 
remained for the rest of the day. Kate knocked at 
the door a few minutes after the lunch-bell rang, to 
see if she was ready to go down stairs ; but when 
she caught a glimpse of June’s white face and heavy 
eyes, her pretty features changed their jesting ex- 
pression to one of concern. 

“ What is the matter, June V 9 she asked, in some 
alarm ; “ have you received any ill news \ You’re 
as white as a ghost !” 

“No,” June responded, with a faint smile, “ it is 
only a headache. The sun was so hot, and we went 
such a long distance down the river — ” 

“ I wonder where Gerald Burton’s senses were V 9 
Kate exclaimed vehemently ; “ he might have 

known it was too warm to go out on the water this 
morning ! Now you’ll have one of your headaches 


66 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


all the rest of the day ! And there’s the archery 
match for this afternoon, and the tableaux for this 
evening, and the — oh, dear ! it’s just too bad !” 

“ Oh ! I’ll feel well enough to assist you this 
evening. A few hours’ quiet rest will banish the 
headache, and I’ll promise not to desert you.” 

“ Well, then,” and Kate gave a sigh of relief, 
“ your promises are always kept to the letter, so I 
won’t borrow trouble. I’ll bathe your head, and 
darken the room, and no one shall disturb you 
without first obtaining my permission.” 

June submitted patiently to her ministrations. 
Not for worlds would she have told her she wished 
for nothing but solitude, yet how she longed to be 
by herself ! Kate’s voice jarred upon her nerves 
with the sound of playful mockery, and the slow, 
monotonous movement of her hand was like adding 
fuel to the fire ; but her sympathy was so genuine 
and loving that it was impossible to do otherwise 
than accept it with apparent willingness ; and after 
the manner of many a person who yields to tor- 


JUNE'S ANSWER. 


67 


meriting caresses rather than pain the giver of them, 
June received all Kate’s attentions, and felt deeply 
thankful when she left the room bearing with her 
various supplies of camphor, cologne, and other 
remedies. 

One is led to question whether there is not as 
much suffering experienced in the few moments 
which elapse between the time one’s sympathizing 
friend says, ‘ : Well, I know you wish to be by your- 
self, so I’ll leave you,” and the precise second 
which heralds the closing of the door upon the de- 
parting person, as there is when the first blow of 
sorrow falls. The actual grief is hard enough to 
bear, but the thought of meeting it face to face, 
alone and unaided, is doubly trying. 

Left to yourself ! That means leaving you to 
fight out the battle unseen and unmolested. Left to 
yourself ! Then you can groan and weep and 
match love and inclination against duty and neces : 
sity, and if you are beaten and conquered and 
crushed, who will know it but yourself? Left to 


68 


HOW IT ENDED. 


yourself ! Great Heaven ! Can one experience 
greater misery than that sometimes is l 

So June thought, as she reflected upon the morn- 
ing’s painful ending. The transition from quiet 
security to restless uncertainty had been so sudden 
that she was troubled and bewildered by the 
change, and found it difficult to realize the differ- 
ence. Yesterday Gerald Burton was her pleasant, 
agreeble friend, undemonstrative, unlover-like ; to- 
day, by the confession of his love, he had brought a 
hitherto unknown sorrow to her, and an additional 
burden to himself, turning pleasure into misery, 
and friendship into doubt. Why could not th'ngs 
have remained as they were \ How she wished she 
could close her eyes and slip out of the world with- 
out further anguish or trouble ! 


THINKING. 


69 


CHAPTER IX. 

THINKING. 

All that long, dreary afternoon Jane reflected 
upon present and future troubles as she dimly real- 
ized them ; and during that time she suffered as in- 
tensely as only a woman can who loves deeply and 
truly, yet has no assurance that she loves wisely. 
If she had but known, or if Gerald — but no, she 
was far too generous to indulge in that thought, and 
she could not censure him. Besides, was it not 
barely possible that she was worrying about an im- 
probable grief? Perhaps the overseer’s daughter 
had long ago married happily, and ere this lost all 
recollection of Gerald Burton, and her desire to pos- 
sess his money and estate. Would it not be as well 
to refrain from thinking that he could be nothing to 
her until she received indisputable evidence to that 
effect ? 

To think, with June, was to act. Having decided 


70 


HOW IT ENDED. 


that it was best to let the future take care of itself, 
she tried to put her theory into practice. To say 
she resolutely closed her heart to all thoughts of 
Gerald and his love would scarcely be true ; but she 
resolved, and wisely, to indulge in no more sur- 
mises. If sorrow and disappointment awaited her, 
it would be as well to avert the trouble as long as 
possible, and if Gerald could never be hers, it would 
be time enough to grieve when the moment of part- 
ing positively arrived. 

June’s decision may seem very cold and heartless ; 
but the ways of sorrowing are as many and as wide- 
ly different as the ways of loving. Boisterous grief 
is not always sincere, or excessive love durable ; 
and the “ quiet heart” suffers in silence, bearing pa- 
tiently the fiercest pangs of sorrow. June, though 
almost crushed by the sudden blow to her happi- 
ness, had no intention of proclaiming it to the world, 
or of dwelling upon the trouble herself ; and with 
her, action speedily followed resolution in every in- 
stance. So, when the last rays of sunshine gleamed 


THINKING. 


71 


through the window, she summoned her maid to aid 
her in preparing for the evening, and when ready to 
descend to the parlor, elegantly and faultlessly at- 
tired, she was as lovely and composed as though 
sorrow had never touched her. But sad enough her 
sweet face was, as she lingered by the window a few 
moments, before leaving her room, looking out on 
the bright river that flashed and sparkled as it had 
in the morning ; and sad enough she felt, as almost 
unconsciously she softly repeated to herself Ar- 
nold’s sorrowful “ Too Late 


“ Each on his own straight line we move, 
And some find death ere they find love, 
So far apart their lives are thrown 
From the twin soul that halves our own. 

“ And sometimes, by still harder fate, 

The lovers meet, but meet too late. 

Thy heart is mine ! True, true, ah, true ! 
Then love, thy hand ! Ah, no ! Adieu.” 


But her face bore no trace of sadness when she 
joined the merry group upon the piazza a few mo- 


72 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


ments later, and replied laughingly to the merry sal- 
utations that greeted her. One quick look she gave 
to see if Gerald was present ; but with a sensation 
of great relief she found him absent from the gay 
group, and parried with great skill all queries con- 
cerning his non-appearance. Kate shrewdly sus- 
pected that June could have given all the informa- 
tion necessary, but she could not question her then. 

What a long, tiresome evening it had been, June 
thought, when late at night the revellers retired to 
their rooms. Never had everybody and everything 
seemed so utterly stupid and tedious, or the time so 
slow and dreary ; and it was with sincere pleasure 
that she closed and locked her door, feeling secure 
against all intruders. Did she close her eyes in 
peaceful slumber for the rest of the night ? Had 
she not resolved to think no more of Gerald Burton 
until she was assured of her right to do so 1 

A woman’ s heart and a woman’ s love are curious 
studies, and June was no exception to her sex in 
advocating a theory she found impossible to put 


THINKING. 


73 


into practice. It seems to me a woman is never 
more contradictory or inconsistent tlian when she 
discovers her heart is no longer in her own keeping, 
or that some one else claims her thoughts and her 
attentions. 

June’s self-promises to put Gerald and his love 
away from her thoughts were kept as one may im- 
agine. Can any woman prevent herself from think- 
ing of the man she loves, whether it is right or 
wrong for her to do so ? If any sleep visited her 
eyes that night, it was long after her friends had 
journeyed to the land of dreams, and even then her 
slumbers were disturbed and restless. 

Slowly, drearily, passed the rest of the week. In 
all that time June saw Gerald but once, and then by 
mere accident. Kate and her cousin were out driv- 
ing one morning, and as they passed through an un- 
frequented lane they saw Gerald a short distance be- 
yond, sauntering along as though he felt perfectly 
indifferent and listless concerning no one in particu- 
lar, but everything in general. Kate drew in her 


74 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


ponies, and, without any preliminary conversation, 
proceeded to lecture him for absenting himself from 
Koselawn. He talked to Kate, but gazed at 
June, and he looked so grave and sad, his eyes had 
such a mournful expression in their brown depths, 
that she could not trust herself to speak to him. 
He assured Kate he had a most excellent reason for 
remaining away from herself and friends, but that 
he promised himself the pleasure of calling in a few 
days. He contemplated going home in a week or 
two, but would certainly see them all before his de- 
parture. 

Kate appealed to June for assistance in persuad- 
ing him to drive home with them ; but he abruptly 
declined the invitation without offering any reason 
for the refusal. 

“ You’re a perfect bear,” asserted Kate, touching 
the horses as she spoke, “ and I don’t wonder that 
June is indignant at your slighting us so openly. 
But we won’t ask you again ! We don’t like re- 
fusals, do we ?” 


THINKING. 


75 


J une forced herself to ntter a few polite words of 
regret, but she did not glance at Gerald as she 
spoke ; indeed, she had not fully met his gaze dur- 
ing the entire conversation ; and it was with a feel- 
ing of intense relief that she saw him turn away 
and felt the motion of the carriage. 

“ June !” exclaimed Kate, as they drove away, 
“ I never knew you to be so contrary and unreason- 
able as you have been during the past few days ! I 
am quite sure you are the cause of Gerald Burton’ s 
melancholy looks and love-lorn mien, but I must 
confess I don’ t understand it. As a general thing I 
can put two and two together as quickly as any one 
can ; but in this instance twice two obstinately re- 
fuses to make the sum total four ! What have you 
done to him ? Whose fault is it % Or are you both 
to blame V 

June hesitated before replying. She did not care 
to confide the story to Kate, at least not yet. Her 
sympathy would have been very sweet, but she in- 
dulged in the hope that none would be necessary. 


% 


HOW IT ENDED. 


“ I have nothing to tell yon, Kate,” she said, at 
last ; “ at least not now. If you’ll promise not to 
ask any questions for three or four days I’ll tell you 
all you wish to know at the end of that time. Until 
then please don’t refer to the subject again.” 

“ Very well,” returned Kate, curbing her curiosi- 
ty, though feeling disappointed at its not being 
gratified. “ I’ll wait until you are ready to tell me. 
But are you going to Mrs. De Kaye’s to-night ? 
You know we were all invited there for this even- 
ing, and though it may not be pleasant for you to 
meet Gerald, I don’t see how you can refuse to go 
without hurting the old lady’s feelings. She’s 
so fond of you.” 

“I suppose I must go, but indeed I’d rather 
not.” 

“ She would never forgive you !” 

June smiled. She was fully aware of the love old 
Mrs. De Kaye lavished upon her, and entertained no 
fears of its being withdrawn simply because she 
refused an invitation to Nookside. Besides, she 


BONDAGE. 


77 


dreaded Gerald’s presence far more than she feared 
his aunt’s displeasure. 

But fate, in the form of a severe thunder-storm, 
detained them at home that evening, for which June 
was devoutly grateful. Only three days of sus- 
pense remained, and then — what ? 


CHAPTER X. 

BONDAGE. 

And Gerald ? When June left him so abruptly 
that morning in the grove, he stood and gazed after 
her until he lost sight of her graceful figure. ; then 
he quickly retraced his steps to the river, where 
his boat was moored. To embark and row swiftly 
home did not require much time ; and certainly, 
had he been rowing for a race or a wager, the oars 
could not have dashed in and out of the water with 
greater velocity. 

Kate would have had sufficient reason for calling 


78 


HOW IT ENDED. 


him a stern, grave man, conld she have seen him 
then. His white, fixed features, compressed lips, 
and sad eyes, spoke plainly of the pain he was en- 
during, and clearly portrayed his heartfelt despair. 
Knowing Belle Huxton’s determination to secure 
through him the wealth and position she coveted, 
he was satisfied he could hope for no release from 
her claim upon him. And yet how he hated her ! 
How he cursed the insane folly which had overshad- 
owed his life for so many years ! How bitterly he 
reproached himself for that one mad act ! 

But despite his despair, despite the loathing he 
experienced in regard to the union of hands, not 
hearts, the noble nature of the man asserted itself, 
even though his own hand dealt the death-blow to 
his happiness. Most men, indeed almost any man, 
in Gerald’s position, though honorable enough to 
regret that boyish escapade, would nevertheless 
have regarded it as youthful folly, refusing to 
be held responsible for the consequences. Many 
would have ignored it from the first, and have ridi- 


BONDAGE. 


79 


culed the bare possibility of being held to the pro- 
testations of fancied love. With other boyish acts, 
they would have dismissed it from their recollec- 
tion, caring little for the real or supposed wrong 
done to the overseer’s daughter. Others, perhaps, 
would have felt bound by honor to Belle until they 
loved truly and equally, and then her claims would 
have been banished without hesitation. 

But Gerald, whose ideas of honor were so high as 
to almost touch the extreme, could not satisfy his 
conscience by any of those releases. Honor to 
him was more than life itself. To keep his name 
untarnished had been his constant care, and it was a 
hard struggle now to do what was right, and pleas- 
ing to himself as well. Death was preferable to 
dishonor, he thought, and though a weaker man 
would have sought escape in suicide, Gerald could 
not have found refuge in such a step. It would be so 
easy, he thought, so easy to lean over the boat’s side, 
and quietly slip down beneath the water’s bright 
surface ; so easy to put aside all trouble and heart- 


80 


HOW IT ENDED. 


ache, to drown care and conscience, to escape the 
sorrow that probably awaited him in the future. 
So easy — yet he could not do it. 

Whatever the pain or suffering he still had to 
endure, he must bear it unflinchingly, and bear it 
without a murmur. A coward’s fate he could not 
make his own. 

As he had told June, the five years of probation 
would expire in a week ; but not having patience to 
wait in suspense longer than was absolutely neces- 
sary, he decided to discover the worst at once, and 
therefore determined to write to his mother that 
same day, and if possible learn Belle’s decision. 

When he reached the house, he was told that 
his aunt had gone out for the day ; so there was 
nothing to prevent him from being as quiet as he 
pleased, without exciting comment from his keen- 
sighted old relative. He wrote his letter, then 
walked to the village to mail it. Having done 
that, nothing remained but for him to w r ait as 
patiently as possible for a reply. He resolved to 


BONDAGE ; 


81 


stay away from Roselawn until he learned the 
worst, or best, and during that apparently inter- 
minable week, he saw June but once, when he met 
the two cousins in the lane. 

Solitude, as a general thing, is one of the mascu- 
line privileges. If a man is ill-natured, unhappy, 
out of sorts generally, he can mope and sigh and 
feel miserable, and be as reticent as he wishes. A 
good cigar will afford him great consolation, and he 
can be as cross and disagreeable as it best suits him, 
placing it all to the account of business troubles ; 
but a woman — ah, me ! we have to smile our sweet- 
est, and be our wittiest and brightest even while the 
fiercest pains are riddling our hearts, as though they 
were patent targets, where the bullets go through 
the elastic surface and leave no sign. 

Two days dragged slowly by, and then, one morn- 
ing while sitting in the library, reading aloud to his 
aunt, the letter he so impatiently expected was 
handed him. Feeling sure of her sympathy and 
advice he had told Aunt Janet the whole story ; and 


82 


HOW IT ENDED. 


tlie knowledge that some one shared with him the 
heavy burden of anxiety, to say nothing of the com- 
fort he derived from her bright anticipations, helped 
him 'wonderfully. 

“ Read your letter here, Gerald,’’ she said as he 
was about to leave the room ; “ read it here, and I’ll 
watch your face while you are reading. Then I’ll 
know what it is, and you’ll be spared the pain of 
telling me.” 

He tore the envelope open, and with eager eyes 
perused its contents. The fond old lady sitting op- 
posite him, closely scrutinizing his face as he read, 
saw it suddenly turn pale to the lips, then the let- 
ter fell from his hand, and as his head sank upon 
the table before him she knew the worst was real- 
ized. There was a world of silent sympathy in the 
touch of her hand as she rested it upon his head, 
sympathy which her trembling voice would not per- 
mit her to utter. Then she left him — knowing well 
it would be the kindest thing for her to do — left him 
to fight alone the fiercest battle of shattered hopes 


BONDAGE. 


83 


and black despair a man ever engaged in without 
losing life or reason. But we never die when we 
wish to, never lose the power to think and feel and 
suffer. It always remains with us, no matter how 
earnestly we desire to escape from it. 

The black waves of despair, so poetically de- 
scribed, surge over us, sometimes almost bearing 
away life itself, and deluding us with the sweet 
hope that as easily can we slip out of this dreary 
world of care and heartache ; but the illusion is 
dispelled, and when the dark waters roll beyond we 
find ourselves left in the midst of a heart-rending 
wreck, where love and faith, and all things that 
brighten life, are swept away or tarnished by the 
waters. 

All the rest of the day Gerald remained in that 
position, his arms resting upon the table, his 
face resting on them. The last faint gleam of twi- 
light flickered through the room when he at length 
raised his head, disclosing a face so white and drawn 
with pain that it looked fully ten years older than it 


84 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


had a few short hours ago. If time could be meas- 
ured by the amount of sorrow we experience in 
a brief moment, how endless the days and years 
would seem ! To gauge that dismal day’s length by 
Gerald’ s suffering would be to metamorphose hours 
into centuries. 

Dazed and dulled as his feelings were, however, 
he soon realized keenly how necessary it was for 
him to arouse for action. Besides reconciling him- 
self to the inevitable he must tell J une of the letter 
he had received from his mother, in which she told 
him of Belle’s determination to exact the fulfilment 
of his promise. 

Clearly his first duty was to convey the informa- 
tion to her, and to see her just once before he left 
for home was the one great desire of his heart. 
Painful as the interview would be, hard as separa- 
tion would be, to both, the parting words had to be 
spoken, the last farewell said. And why delay % 
Since the terrible truth had to he made known to 
her, the only woman he had ever loved, why post- 


BONDAGE. 


85 


pone the sorrow, or keep June in suspense ? as if 
waiting would make it less terrible for either, or 
soften the blow in any way ! 

He held his hand to his head for a few moments 
— it ached and whirled so he could scarcely think — 
then he arose to leave the room. He would go to 
June, to tell her he could never claim her for his 
own, that they must part. He would see her now, 
at once ! 

He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped 
into the hall. In that half-dazed, half -unconscious 
manner, he entered the cosey sitting-room where his 
aunt was, to tell her of his intention of going to 
June. 

He reached her side and was about to speak, 
when, to her dismay, he suddenly reeled forward, 
and, without a word or a sigh, fell at her feet insen- 
sible. 


86 


IIOW IT ENDED . 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE LETTER OF DOOM. 

To summon the servants and have him carried 
back to the library was but an instant’s work ; and 
as the tender-hearted old friend gazed upon the 
white, still face, she felt it would be far more merci- 
ful to leave him in that condition, oblivious to his 
sorrow, than to restore him to consciousness. But 
even as that thought flashed through her brain, a 
slight movement from the recumbent figure told her 
he was reviving, and bending over him she asked if 
he felt better. 

As she spoke, he put out his hand, and caught 
hold of hers, grasping- it as though it would keep 
him from falling. The room was so dark she could 
not see his face ; but in that painfully tight clasp 
she felt the anguish he could not put in words. 
She scarcely knew what consolation to offer him, 
mere words seemed such mockery. 


THE LETTER OF DOOM. 


87 


They were both silent — the loving old aunt, who 
felt so keenly the trouble she could not banish, and 
he, the strong man, crushed beneath the blow that 
placed beyond his reach the woman he loved. 

Aunt Janet was the first to break the silence, as 
her tremulous voice whispered, “ My poor boy, my 
poor, dear boy !” 

Then Gerald loosened his grasp of her hand, and 
raised himself to a sitting posture, as he said slowly : 

“ How much can a man endure, I wonder, with- 
out losing life or reason % I believe there are some 
Christian sentiments inherent in my nature, but just 
at present I feel like a boat without a rudder, or a 
man who is helplessly cast adrift. I’ve been think- 
ing of one thing all day long, and that is to wish I 
could die at once, for there’s nothing worth living 
for left me now ! Aunt Janet, why don’t you re- 
prove me, why don’ t you tell me I am foolish, wicked, 
rightly punished, anything you please \ But, oh ! 
say something kind to me, too, for I am utterly mis- 
erable !” 


88 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


“ Something kind? Ok, Gerald! as if I could 
say any tking else,” ske answered sadly. “ Tell me 
all you wisk me to know, and I’ll do my best to 
comfort you.” 

Tken lie told ker tke contents of tke letter ; told 
ker kow liorrible it all seemed to kim ; kow misera- 
bly kelpless ke was to avert tke union ke so keartily 
loatked, and kow kard it was to leave June. All 
tke pent-up tkougkts and feelings of tke past five 
years found full vent in tkat passionate outburst, 
and Mrs. De Kaye felt kerself almost powerless to 
advise or comfort kim. Long and earnestly tkey con- 
versed, but not cheerfully. Ske tried to convince kim 
tkat honor did not demand the sacrifice of June’s 
happiness as well as kis own ; tkat no reasonable 
being could expect kim to fulfil tke promise made 
in a moment of youthful folly ; tkat it was absurd, 
nay, wicked, to insist on so ruining kis life and aims 
— but vainly did ske reason with kim. Not for one 
moment did ke entertain tke idea of releasing him- 
self from kis hateful bondage, and ske soon saw 


THE LETTER OF LOOM . 


89 


liow useless it was to continue the subject. His 
strict regard for the sacredness of a promise made, 
his high sense of honor, which even the complete 
failure of his dearest desire could not shake, all 
made it impossible for him to save himself from the 
fate his own indiscretion had worked. There was 
no release for him unless it came from Belle Hux- 
ton. And too well did he know how tenacious was 
her grasp upon his wealth and position — not his 
love. If she had loved him, even in the first days, 
he might have reconciled himself to the inevitable, 
and possibly found happiness in some degree ; but 
his one interview with her, when she so plainly re- 
vealed her object in holding him to his brief fancy, 
and so thoroughly destroyed his respect for her as a 
lady, convinced him completely of the utter folly of 
hoping to give her even the faintest shadow of es- 
teem, and made the idea of loving her, or of being 
loved, a hideous, dark impossibility. 

It was late when their conversation ended, late 
when they retired to their rooms — she, to grieve and 


90 


HOW IT ENDED. 


weep over her boy’s sorrow, and lie to pace the floor 
restlessly until the loud peal of the breakfast bell 
summoned the sleepers to the morning meal. 

When they met at the table, Aunt Janet’s heart 
ached as she gazed at his sad, white face and 
mournful eyes ; but only an interested observer 
would have noticed anything unusual in his appear- 
ance or manners. Always reserved, always quiet, 
he had but little difficulty in concealing any emo- 
tion, or in feigning a calmness he did not feel, in 
order to quiet Aunt Janet’s undefined fears. 

He had decided to see June that evening, for he 
felt further suspense to be intolerable; besides, he 
intended to return home the following day, and the 
parting, since it had to be, could not be delayed. 
Immediately after breakfast he dispatched a brief 
note to June, inclosing his mother’s letter, and ask- 
ing her to see him that evening, as he intended 
leaving Aunt Janet early the next morning. Only 
a short interview he asked for, and then he would 
leave her — forever. Would she see him, and alone \ 


THE LETTER OF DOOM. 


91 


The note and inclosnre were no surprise to June. 
It is true she had been hoping against hope, but 
with a faint heart and with no expectation of Ger- 
ald’s release. The thorn beneath the rose pricked 
her white fingers when she tried to grasp the pretty 
fiower, and the faint wound was a constant source of 
anxiety, even in her brightest moments. The rose 
of his love, the thorn of Belle Huxton’s claim upon 
him ! Could she forget the one or ignore the 
other? And now the end had come — the end of 
love, and joy, and peace, but the beginning, to both, 
of such misery, such utter, intolerable wretchedness 
of heart and mind, that the burden seemed beyond 
their power to bear. 

Would she see him ? Ah ! was- refusal possible ? 
As he said, the parting must be for all time. For a 
few brief moments he would belong to her, and 
then, oh ! horror ! she must give him up to another 
— yield him to an unloving and unloved wife, to a 
long life of unhappiness and disappointment ! 


92 


HOW IT ENDED. 


CHAPTER XII. 

PARTING. 

It was late when Gerald reached Roselawn 
that night, so late that Jnne had almost ceased to 
expect him. Kate and herself were alone, sitting on 
the veranda, in the calm, bright moonlight. The 
atmosphere was redolent with the perfume of roses 
and jasmine, the leaves rustled slowly, almost im- 
perceptibly, in the faint night air, and beyond the 
lawn lay the now placid river, silent in the white 
light of the moon. All was hushed and peaceful in 
the lovely scene, and the two girlish figures, sitting 
there so quietly, completed the picture. Kate was 
leaning against one of the pillars, indulging in pleas- 
ant thoughts, and thankful, as she expressed it, to 
be alone with her cousin. June, in the shadow of a 
heavy clematis vine, was thinking so intently of 
what the evening held in store for her, that not until 
Gerald stood beside her was she aware of his pres- 


PARTING. 


93 


ence. So quietly had he approached them that 
Kate gave a slight scream of surprise and alarm. 

“ How you startled me !” she exclaimed, holding 
out her hand ; “ since when have you adopted the 
method of stealing upon one unawares ? June and 
I are revelling in the pleasures of an evening all 
to ourselves. She’ s dreaming among the clematis 
vines, and I’ve been gazing at the moon. Give an 
account of yourself — you have not honored us with 
your society for a whole week ! Are you feeling 
pleasant and agreeable now, or are you still deep 
down in the ‘ blues ? ’ 

“ * Come you in peace, or come you in war, 

Or to dance at our b % ridal, young Locliinvar ? 

But I’ve forgiven you — go make your confessions 
to June. I’m afraid, though, you will find her 
more obdurate !” 

He uttered some pleasant reply to Kate’s merry 
words, then seated himself beside the silent, white- 
robed figure partly hidden by the heavy vines. 

Without giving him an opportunity to speak to 


94 


HOW IT ENDED. 


June, Kate asked him some questions which de- 
manded a lengthy answer, and in the ensuing con- 
versation she could take no part. Screened by the 
shadows, Gerald’s hand closed upon the small lin- 
gers resting on the arm of the chair beside him, and 
remained there until Kate declared it was growing 
too chilly to remain out of doors any longer. 

“We won’t take possession of the parlor, June, 
let’s be cosey in the library. You don’t mind, do 
you V’ she asked. 

Now Kate’s keenly observant eyes had easily de- 
tected the change in the pleasant friendship hitherto 
existing between June and Mr. Burton, and after de- 
ciding that some trivial misunderstanding had caused 
the estrangement, she resolved to play the part of 
mediator, if possible. With that end in view, there- 
fore, she excused herself shortly after entering the 
house, on the plea of going to her mother, who was 
slightly indisposed, and left them alone. 

How June’s heart throbbed as the door closed 
after Kate, leaving her alone with Gerald ! How 


PARTING. 


95 


nervously she toyed with the lace upon her sleeve ! 
She could feel that he was gazing steadily at her as 
she stood under the full glare of the gaslight, could 
feel how anxiously he was waiting for a glance or a 
word. She raised her face to his after a moment’ s 
silence, her lips curved in a faint, sad smile ; but 
before she could speak he was at her side, his arms 
around her in a close, tight embrace, holding her as 
if he would never again release her. 

“ My darling ! my love !” he exclaimed, imprint- 
ing hot, passionate kisses upon check and brow and 
lips ; “ my own, for one short half hour, if no 
longer ! Lift your sweet face to mine, June, and 
tell me you love me ! It is not wrong — you won’t 
refuse — don’ t send me from you without a word of 
regret or pity ! Tell me again, for the last time, 
that you do care for me, even though we part to- 
night never to meet again !” 

“ Is it necessary for me to tell you that, Gerald 
she asked, raising her head from his shoulder ; 
“ could anything but my love for you induce me to 


96 


HOW IT ENDED. 


accept your caresses, or permit you to utter words 
you should not speak ? After to-night we will prob- 
ably never meet again. I hope not — I pray not — I 
could not endure another interview unless I had the 
right to your presence, and that you cannot give me. 
I love you, Gerald, love you with all the power and 
intensity of my woman’s heart — love you so well 
that to give you a happy, satisfied life I would will- 
ingly sacrifice my own ! If I had known — if you 
had only told me — you might have been spared this 
sorrow, and your other trouble would have been 
easier to bear ! Say farewell to me now, Gerald, 
the delay only makes it harder for us both. Clasp 
me in your arms again, rest your lips upon mine 
once more, and then, oh ! if you love me, in mercy 
leave me !” 

Leave her ! There was anguish worse than death 
in the thought, yet he was . forced to submit ! A 
few more kisses, a few more glances in the lovely 
brown eyes raised to his, and in whose depths he 
saw the deep, pure love-light shining, and then he 


PARTING. 


97 


must leave her, leave the only woman he ever 
loved, to go to the woman he loathed, but whom he 
must marry ! Strong man though he was, the de- 
spair of that moment completely unnerved him. 
To find her only to lose her, the one woman in the 
world who had entered his heart, and filled his life 
with thoughts of love and peace and joy ; never 
again to feel the soft touch of her head upon his 
breast, or the clinging caress of her sweet lips ; 
never again, in all the many years left to him, to 
see her face or hear her voice ! How hard, how bit- 
terly, terribly hard it was ! 

“Hush,” she said, in answer to his words as he 
expressed those thoughts, “ you must not rebel. 
Perhaps you will learn to love your wife yet, 
Gerald. If you marry Belle, surely love must come 
in time. You will forget me and be happy — ” 

“How can you be so cruel, June?” he inter- 
rupted, folding his arms about her again ; “ I never 
thought of loving until I met you, and for me to for- 
get you is utterly impossible. I can only love once — 


98 


HOW IT ENDED. 


I shall love you till I die. Kiss me again, my dar- 
ling, for the last time, and I solemnly swear no other 
lips shall remove the last touch of yours. Kiss me, 
and I will carry your caress to my grave, unsullied 
and sweet, dear, the one memento of a love that 
has been unspeakably precious, though it must al- 
ways remind me of a sorrow that is harder to en- 
dure than death itself. Oh ! June ! to die and leave 
you would be terrible, if I were free ! But to love 
you and live without you — how can I do it ? Don’t 
think me selfish, dear he added, “ it is as hard for 
you, I know. Forgive me if I seem inconsiderate !’’ 

There was a mute appeal in the pale face uplifted 
to his, a piteous sorrow in the brown eyes ; and in 
mercy to her, though to leave her was almost impos- 
sible, he held her to his heart in a close embrace, 
kissed her hair, her eyes, her brow, and then, with 
one long, last kiss upon the lips quite powerless to 
speak, and a lingering look at the face so dear to 
him, he left her. 


THE BITTER END . 


99 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BITTER END. 

They never met again. When he left her after 
that last passionate glance at her sweet face, it was 
to enter into a loveless, cheerless union with Belle 
Huxton. During their first interview, when he 
reached home, he explained his feelings towards 
her, told of his love for another, and gave her 
distinctly to understand that she would receive 
nothing from him but the scantiest civilities. He 
would not pretend to offer her even respect or es- 
teem. He would never forget he was bound to her, 
and would act accordingly, but beyond that recogni- 
tion he would give her nothing. Perhaps he hoped 
to effect a release by showing so plainly how he re- 
garded her ; but the hope was futile. 

Two days later the hateful ceremony took place, 
and almost immediately after the mismatched cou- 
ple sailed for Europe. Upon their return, after an 


100 


HOW IT ENDED. 


absence of two years, Gerald resumed and finished 
his studies, was ordained, and given charge of one 
of the leading churches in his native city. He was 
a true, faithful minister to his congregation, devoted 
to their interests, and enabled, by his wealth, to 
benefit his parish by deed as well as precept. Of 
his home life, a brief description was given Kate 
by a friend who met him shortly after his installa- 
tion. 

“ His wife is a beautiful woman, but not strictly 
refined, notwithstanding her European experience. 
She can be very charming when it pleases her, but 
she lacks the stamp of a true lady. And Burton — 
well, I pity him from the bottom of my heart. You 
have heard his story, Miss Kate, haven’t you? 
Perhaps you can give me a little information on the 
subject then. I was told he loved a beautiful girl, 
but being engaged to his present wife he considered 
himself in honor bound to marry her, even though 
he sacrificed his happiness by doing so. He was 
fanatically wrong, I think, for it was a sacrifice he 


TEE BITTER END. 


101 


should not have made. Besides, Mrs. Burton is to- 
tally incapable of loving, or of appreciating love 
given her. He is courteous to her, but no more. 
He seldom speaks to her, never looks at her if he 
can avoid it, and once when his hand accidentally 
touched hers I saw him shudder from head to foot ! 
She knows he loathes the very sight of her, and 
glories in the knowledge. Poor Burton ! He was 
worthy of a better life, or rather a happier life, than 
he leads. He looks cold and sad, and aged beyond 
his years. I don’t believe he ever smiles — I am sure 
of it. He is constantly keeping guard over his 
words and actions, and his eyes have such a 
mournful, hopeless expression that I never could 
bear to meet them. The fact of his having really 
loved some one else accounts for his sadness — it cer- 
tainly adds to his burden. It always seemed to me 
he was a man to whom the happiness of a real, per- 
fect love would be denied. Yet he was such a 
handsome, generous, high-souled fellow that you 
would think life would give him nothing but com- 


102 


IIOW IT ENDED. 


plete bliss. Do you know any thing about his un- 
fortunate attachment, Miss Kate ? Was it returned, 
or was he jilted? The latter seems improbable.” 

Kate knew, for June had told her all ; but she did 
not think it necessary to give the desired informa- 
tion. 

Years have passed since Gerald left the woman he 
loved to wed the woman he hated. The “harder 
fate” which separated him from June has mercifully 
kept them apart. One never knows how much can 
be borne until the trial is made. It is said poor 
humanity always receives some reward hereafter, if 
worthy of it, for any self-sacrifice or observance 
of duty hard to perform, and it is to be hoped a 
kind Providence will give June and Gerald, in the 
other world, the happiness denied them here. 

June never married. She still lives with her aunt 
and cousin, a sad, beautiful woman, beloved by all 
who know her. And Gerald, in his Southern home, 
surrounded by every luxury wealth can give, pos- 
sessor of a beautiful wife, the esteemed rector of a 


( 


THE BITTER END. 


103 


loving people > walks through life like one who, hav- 
ing put his hand to the plough dare not look back. 

Often, when alone in his study, the book or man- 
uscript will fall from his hand, and he will drop his 
head upon the desk before him, with a low- toned 
exclamation of repressed pain. The thought of 
what he had lost by his own mad folly still has 
power to hurt him, and the memory of June’s face 
will never leave him. The promise he made her, of 
keeping her last kiss upon his lips through life, has 
never been broken. He will take it with him to his 
grave, for no other lips have touched his since he 
left her. 


If this simple story seems improbably sad, or my 
readers object to its termination, let me assure them 
“ truth is stranger than fiction,” and that this is an 
“ ower true tale.” 





























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